Day One

by Bill Cameron

  “Are you ready?”

  “You gotta ask?” The old man cracked his knuckles. “What kinda car does this bastard drive?”

  “BMW. Let me get up on the porch before you come up.”

  The street was quiet. A few houses showed lights, like the Bronstein place, but no one was outside. Making coffee, yelling at their damn kids to get outa bed already. Big Ed tucked the larynx into his belt, then crept up onto the porch, quiet as his bulk would allow. The front door was half glass, the foyer beyond dark and empty. He pressed himself against the wall to the right of the door, then gestured to Hiram waiting down on the walk. Hiram went straight to the door and knocked. Put a pleasant look on his sunbaked face, much as possible. Slouched a bit. A moment later, light spilled through the glass pane in the door, then a shadow.

  Hiram cracked an unctuous smile. “Mister Bronstein, sir, sorry to bother you so early.”

  Bronstein didn’t open the door. “Do I know you?” His voice wary.

  “It’s Dave. I just moved in a couple houses up. We met the other day.”

  Big Ed could almost picture Bronstein’s confused expression, but Hiram’s bullshit flowed thick. He heard the door open a crack. “We did?” Big Ed tried to make himself even flatter against the wall.

  Hiram kept smiling. “You were getting out of your car. The Beamer?”

  “If you say so. What can I do for you, Dave? It’s damned early for a social call.”

  Hiram looked back over his shoulder, then down at his feet. “Well, it’s about your car. I’m afraid I ran into it parking, and put a dent in the left front quarter panel.” Big Ed thought of the Accord and had to fight down a chuckle about that little detail. Nice touch, Hiram.

  “What?” Bronstein yanked the door open and took a step onto the porch, his face searching. “When the hell did—”

  Big Ed slid sideways past Hiram and grabbed Bronstein by the throat, one-handed. Mitch’s eyes bulged and he clawed at the meat clamp on his windpipe. Big Ed spun around to face him and Bronstein stumbled. Ed pushed him through the doorway, hand still on his throat.

  “Who is it, honey?” The girl, calling from another room. He could hear a note of Givern Valley in her voice. “It’s awfully early for someone to be knocking on the door.” Bronstein tried to speak, but Big Ed’s grip was too strong. “Jase, sweetie, go see who it is.”

  “I’m eating.” The older kid. The one Myra mentioned.

  “Come on, Jase. Help me out here. I still need to get Danny up.”

  Big Ed walked Bronstein backward and cracked his head hard against the wooden trim around the front closet door. Bronstein crumpled, but continued to struggle. Big Ed cracked his head again then pushed him down onto his ass, head slumped against his shoulder. Dazed, but conscious. He pressed his face into Bronstein’s and stuck the larynx against his own throat. Spoke in as much of a whisper as the device would allow. “Be quiet and you and your family might live through this.”

  An idle threat, but Bronstein didn’t know that. His hands went to his throat. “What ... you ... what do you ...” A coffee-laced gasp.

  “We are here for the boy.”

  Bronstein’s eyes rolled. Big Ed stood, looked to either side, assessing. Fingers curled around the black cylinder of the larynx. The living room at his left opened onto the dining room. To his right, a hallway led past the stairs into the back. Both routes must connect to the kitchen. He heard a sound, the scrape of a chair across the floor. A muttered curse, then footsteps. A door opened, flooded the hallway with light. The door swung shut again as the tall, overweight kid appeared in the hallway next to the stairs. It seemed to take him a moment to realize what he was looking at. “Whoa, jeezus—!” Big Ed caught his eye as he turned, tried to flee. One quick step, then his arm locked around the kid’s neck. He yanked the kid backwards off his feet, slammed him into the floor. He kneeled down on the boy’s chest, looked him in the eye. The terror on the kid’s face was clear as reading a newspaper headline.

  Jase, the woman had called him.

  Hiram Spaneker stepped in through the open front door. “Think you’re making enough noise?” The old man looked down at Bronstein, then Jase, with obvious disdain. “I bet folks could hear your goddamn ruckus halfway to Salem.”

  “It went as planned.”

  “I don’t doubt it, if stampeding cattle was the fucking plan.”

  Footsteps. “Jase, honey, what’s going on? What was that noise?” The swinging door in the hallway started to open.

  “You go find the boy.” Hiram slapped him on the shoulder. Big Ed nodded, headed up the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hiram slip around through the living room as the woman pushed through the kitchen door into the hall.

  Her scream followed Big Ed up the stairs. He hit the second floor landing at a run and moved down a dark hallway, four doors, two on each side, and what looked like another stairway leading down at the far end. The two nearer doors stood open. He looked into a bedroom, empty, the bed heaped with rumpled blankets and sheets. Clock radio the only light. An adult room. No one home. The other open door led into the bathroom, dimly lit by a night light over the sink. Big Ed moved down the hall and pushed open the first closed door. Had to be the older kid’s bedroom. The walls were covered with posters of rappers and oily girls in bikinis. A computer sat on the desk next to a small flat-screen television. Video game console, stacks of game cases and DVDs. Big Ed pulled the door shut and turned.

  The boy stood behind him, one hand on the doorknob of the room opposite. No more than four years old, chestnut hair and big eyes.

  “What’s your name?” The kid’s voice was hardly louder than a breath. As he spoke, he studied the scars on Big Ed’s throat, but he showed no fear.

  Big Ed leaned down. He could hear sounds downstairs, movement, rough banging. But the screaming had stopped. The kid didn’t seem to notice.

  “What’s your name?”

  Big Ed didn’t plan on getting into that. He put his hand to his neck, trying to hide the larynx in his big paw. “Hey, kid. You got some shoes? Pants?”

  “Where’s my mommy?”

  “She told me to come help you get dressed. We are going on a trip.”

  “Where’s my mommy?”

  Big Ed stood, slipped around him into his bedroom. It was small and neat, toys organized in stacked cubbies in one corner. Cookie Monster wallpaper and a Transformers lamp. A pair of shoes on the floor in front of the small dresser.

  “Where are your diapers?”

  The little boy parked his hands on his hips and lowered his eyebrows, stern and ridiculous. “I wear big boy pull-ups.”

  Big Ed saw the package of pull-ups on the dresser top and decided to grab a couple, just in case. He yanked open the dresser drawers until he found pants, turned around to find the kid standing behind him, bare-ass naked, pull-up in his hand.

  “I made pee-pee.”

  Big Ed hadn’t thought about this part. He planned to grab the kid and go. Diapers and pants, what was he supposed to do? He’s wasn’t some kind of nanny.

  “Here, put these on.” He thrust the clean pull-ups at him, but the kid just looked at him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Joe.” As good a name as any.

  “I made pee-pee, Joe.”

  “Okay. Good boy.”

  “You talk funny.”

  Big Ed could feel himself getting frustrated. He tried to smile. “Let me help get you dressed.”

  “I can put my own pants on.”

  Big Ed bowed his head. Thank you. The kid wriggled into one of the pairs of pull-ups. He looked at the pants Big Ed held and apparently rejected them, went to the dresser and got out a different pair, blue corduroy overalls. He flopped onto his butt, struggled with the pant legs. Downstairs, Big Ed heard a crash, door slam, something. Didn’t sound good. Maybe a voice. “No—!” The kid looked up at the sound, concerned.

  “Where’s my mommy?”

  “She is fine.”
Big Ed grabbed the overalls by the suspenders and lifted, allowing the boy to plunk down into the pant legs. Then he hooked the suspenders and pushed the boy’s sneakers onto his little feet without socks. He thought briefly about rooting around for a shirt, decided the pajama top would have to do.

  He pointed the little boy toward the door and gave him a gentle push, one hand on his shoulder. In an instant, the boy slithered out of his grip. Before he knew what was happening, the kid darted through the door, trailing giggles behind him. Big Ed charged into the hall, saw a tuft of hair vanish into the darkness of the back stairwell. Still giggling.

  Big Ed made chase, astounded by the speed with which the little monkey got away from him. He took the stairs three at a time and plunged through the doorway at the bottom just in time to hear the gun go off.

  November 19 — 11:10 am

  Not on the Schedule

  My last conversation with Charm Gillespie had been four months earlier when I called in the aftermath of Eager’s tag on Mitch and Luellen’s door. It had been our first contact since she left town, though I knew Dieter still hassled her, probably on a schedule set in Outlook. I had to remind myself I wasn’t doing Mitch’s bidding so much as chasing my own curiosity when I called the Spokane phone number I’d browbeat out of Eager during one of his many flights back to Portland. One of the girls answered. I didn’t remember much about them except their names, Gem and Jewel. Twins. No clue which one I got.

  “Hey there, sweetie. Can I talk to your mother?”

  “I’m not your sweetie. I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “Is your mother there?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Tell her it’s about Eager.”

  “We’re not allowed to say his name.”

  Blunt, this one. Got her personality from her mother.

  “Would you put your mom on?”

  “I’ll ask her, but I bet she won’t talk to you. She doesn’t like Eager anymore.”

  I listened to the buzzes and hisses of long distance and to the sound of a television while I waited. Distantly, through the phone, I could hear the little girl’s conversation with Charm.

  “He says it’s about you-know-who.” As if I’d called about Voldemort.

  “It’s that goddamn cop, isn’t it? Tell him I’m not home.”

  “Mom.”

  “What?”

  “He probably knows you’re here.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jesus Christ, you told him I was here, didn’t you?”

  “Mo-ommm.”

  “Give me the goddamn phone.”

  I heard a clatter and a sigh.

  “Hello, Mrs. Gillespie.”

  “It’s Mrs. Hutchison now.”

  “Sure. Mrs. Hutchison.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you know where Eager is.”

  “What makes you think I’d want to?”

  “He’s your son. He’s supposed to be living with you.”

  “Spare me.” She knew even better than I did how hard it had been to keep Eager in Spokane.

  “So I take it you don’t know.”

  She went quiet, though I could hear her breathing against a Dr. Phil backdrop.

  “Mrs. Hutchison ... Charm—” Maybe pretending we were on a first name basis would warm her up.

  “I don’t have to talk to you. We established that a long time ago.”

  She had me there. I waited, hoping to draw her out with my own silence. She almost outlasted me, but then she sighed.

  “He was here a few weeks ago.”

  “Really? How long did he stay?”

  “About as long as it took him to ask for money and for my husband to say no.”

  “Did you say no too, Mrs. Hutchison?”

  “Is that all, Detective?”

  “Did he mention where he might be heading?”

  “We didn’t chit-chat.”

  “Apparently he’s been down this way recently. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  I’ve always enjoyed my little chats with Charm. But I never have a fucking clue what they amount to.

  Now I need to call her again, a prospect with all the appeal of a colonoscopy. Hard to guess if this morning’s events in front of Mitch’s house will mean anything to her. Still, even Charm Gillespie might get a little misty when she hears her kid took a bullet in the face.

  The number 14 bus drops me at Hawthorne and SE 47th, and a fleeting rain chases me the last half block to the door of Uncommon Cup II. It’s been my home away from home since retirement—Ruby Jane’s second location in her growing empire of coffee. I hesitate before going in. When RJ offered me hours a few months earlier, my gut response was to decline. I’d been a cop so long the thought of serving lattes seemed on a par with auditioning for the ballet. Standing behind a counter, asking customer after customer what they’ll have. Saying “thank you” and “come again,” all while smiling and looking them in the eye.

  A year ago I’d have sworn I’d come to terms with my neck. But suddenly I found myself self-conscious for the first time in years. You come into contact with plenty of folks investigating homicides, but a little disfigurement isn’t as much of a problem for a cop. If anything, it gave me an edge, generated disquiet, put people off their game. In interviews, with Susan working the warm, sympathetic lady cop angle, I’d lead with my neck. But behind a coffee counter? One gander at me and the come agains were sure to suffer a serious drop-off.

  I said I was too busy not finishing the Times crossword to get a job. Ruby Jane told me to shut the hell up and come learn to pull shots. She should have listened to me. Hell, I should have listened to me.

  Inside, I take a moment to inhale the aromas of coffee and milk steam. The old Armenian who looks like Saddam Hussein in witness protection is in his usual spot near the window, and a couple of unremarkable specimens hog the couch. Marcy is working the counter. I’m not on the schedule, won’t be for the rest of the week. I’d asked for the time off, and Ruby Jane agreed it was a good idea. By email.

  “What’s going on, Skin?”

  “Not much. Is RJ coming in?” Time spent with Ruby Jane inevitably consumes all my energy, which makes me wonder why I’m even here. Not that I wonder for long. I know exactly why.

  Marcy’s cheeks color, as if she’s surprised I’ve got the nerve to mention RJ’s name. But Ruby Jane wouldn’t have told her what happened. “She went over to the Hollywood shop.”

  “I need to make a phone call, thought I would use the back room.”

  “No one’s back there right now.”

  I make my way through the kitchen to the doorless nook behind the dish sanitizer. It’s not quite an office, just an out-of-the-way spot where Ruby Jane has put a small desk and file cabinet, chair, and a bulletin board with the weekly schedule. It’s not much, but it provides a measure of privacy. I sit down, pull out my cell phone. Charm’s number is saved in my contacts list.

  A man answers after half a dozen rings. “Hello, Hutchisons.”

  “May I speak to Mrs. Hutchison, please?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “I’m calling about Eager.”

  “The detective.”

  “Kadash, yes.”

  “She won’t talk to you, Detective Kadash.” His voice isn’t unfriendly.

  “Are you Mister Hutchison?”

  “Yes.” In the background, I can hear the murmur of a weather report; I’m grateful it isn’t Dr. Phil. “What do you want?”

  “I have some news about Eager.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Preternatural. Or maybe they’d both been expecting a call like this for a while now. “I’m afraid I can’t say for sure. He turned up this morning, but he got hurt and now he’s missing again.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I didn’t think he was.” H
e’d need rocket boots to get to Spokane in the couple of hours since I’d seen him. “I’m just trying to figure out where he might have got to. I was hoping someone there could tell me where he might be staying here in Portland.”

  “Have you checked under all the bridges?”

  “You think he’s living outside?”

  “I don’t know, but that would fit.”

  “Does he have any friends or other family down here?”

  “Listen, Detective. I don’t know what to tell you. Eager hasn’t been here in I don’t know how long. He shows up every so often, usually to beg for money and upset my wife. Then he disappears again for months at a time. We’ve reported him as a runaway for all the good that does. We just don’t know what he’s up to.”

  “He was shot this morning.”

  There’s a long silence. Spokane’s high will be forty-two today. “That’s ... unfortunate.”

  “You don’t sound too upset.”

  “Listen, I hardly know him.”

  “You and Charm got married when she moved to Spokane, what, two years ago?”

  “I see where you’re going with this, but it won’t fly. Yes, I’m his stepfather, but my focus is on the kids who actually live here.”

  “So not upset then.”

  He sighs. “Charm will be upset enough for the two of us.” I find that hard to believe, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

  “May I speak to your wife?”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Not you?”

  “Christ. Charm was right about you.”

  “Mister Hutchison, I didn’t mean—” He hangs up.

  I fold my phone, weigh it in my hand along with my limited options. I suppose I could check all the bridges and overpasses in the city. Maybe the other skate parks, though I don’t think Eager will be doing any ollies with a bullet behind his eyeball. But finding Eager is a job I’m no longer in a position to do. I have no access to resources, can’t issue a BOLO, or even ask friendly uniforms to keep an eye out for him. If he ends up in a hospital, the gunshot wound will mean a call to the cops, but no one will tell me about it.